


O Resilient Light

by castielssock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1950s Household Kink, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Collars, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Feminization, Fisting, Humiliation, Impregnation Kink, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Nipple Play, Panties, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Self-Lubrication, Spanking, Submissive/Bottom Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielssock/pseuds/castielssock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decades after the Omega's Liberation Movement, Dean and Castiel walk the fine line of being both a progressive and a traditional Alpha/Omega couple. Or in which dirtybad kinks are awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Resilient Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/69130.html?thread=23501834#t23501834); _Omega!Cas is mated to Alpha!Dean and in public they are a progressive, liberal couple who actively fight for omega rights, but at home, they both get off on fetishizing traditional gender roles._ (Please read prompt for full warnings).
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any profit from it etc etc. Title taken from _Teeth_ by Bowerbirds.

“Alright guys, that's it for today. Remember to read chapters six-through-eight on Omega's Suffrage for Monday, you _will_ be tested on it,” Dean said, huffing at the ensuing dramatic groaning and whining that filled the lecture hall.

For all their theatrics and fanfare, you'd think he'd just told his students the cafeteria was out of Nutella or something.

“No, don't look at me like that. You knew it was coming.”

Most kids took Dean's classes hoping for an easy-A; they showed up every so often thinking the material would be softball, that they could just wing it with minimal effort. It was unfortunately the expected attitude when you taught Gender Studies, and Dean was more than used to having to work to get people excited about the subject, but he also revelled in the challenge of being able to prove them wrong too.

Chalk it up to Alpha competitiveness or something.

“And the quality of your work this semester's pushed my standards higher too, so I'm expecting top marks,” he said, shaking his head with a chuckle at the outright stink-eye he received in return.

_Kids._

“Seriously, you guys have got this. Okay?”

They didn't seem convinced, but slowly began clearing out with rolling eyes and slumped shoulders anyway, their textbooks held close to their chest like armour.

Dean snorted and turned his back to his desk, gathering up his papers and reports and whatever else was to be added to the mountain of work he had to haul home with him over the weekend because, like his students, his job didn't finish as soon as he left the classroom either.

That didn't take the glint from his eyes though, didn't stop his lips from curling up at the corners as he packed his desk up to take with him.

Dean knew what was waiting for him at home, and that was all the enticement he needed.

Taking a moment to switch off the light like the goddamn environmentalist he'd been whipped into, Dean left the lecture hall and headed off towards freedom, only stopping for a moment when sidelined by his T.A, Charlie, who apparently wanted his signature in addition to their usual routine of snark and affection.

He couldn't say he begrudged her the five minutes, though. She'd be leaving him at the end of the year and truth be told, he'd miss having the snappy little Beta around his classroom and his ankles, giving him life lessons and sage words instead of marking papers like she was supposed to.

She might not have been the best T.A he'd ever had, but she was damn sure the only one he'd call a friend and that was a lot harder to replace. Charlie was the kind of person that came and went as she pleased though, and Dean knew she wouldn't stray too far for too long. Besides, after she'd come for dinner at his place, Cas had all but wanted to adopt her, and Dean knew from experience, no-one could say no to Cas. He had a feeling he'd be seeing her crashed out on his sofa again before too long.

After being slapped on the shoulder and given commands to “enjoy your downtime, Prof” Dean was dismissed by Ms Bradbury and allowed to leave the building.

He found himself grinning idly as he headed towards his car, squinting up at the yellowed sky, the sun holding its place easily and proudly above the grey earth, no clouds around to devour it, not a shade less than the brightest blue to even dare show its face.

The air was warm and fragrant and Dean loosened his tie, picturing Cas pottering around their garden, taking every opportunity the summer afforded him to be outdoors; barefooted and free and at his happiest.

Dean smiled, soft and joyful with the knowledge he married a damn hippy.

“Hey, Winchester!”

Dean's head turned in the direction of the familiar voice, his stomach clenching with the kind of subdued, fond dread you felt when your mortal enemy was also a close friend.

He felt somewhat legitimised for his dramatics though when something light and irritating bounced off the side of his face.

Clutching his cheek in protest, Dean scowled down at the offending ball of paper before quickly turning his glare to his assailant and spotting the smirking Alpha standing behind him.

“Really?” he asked, exasperated as he bent down to pick up the paper, wasting no time (or pride) in aiming it right back at his colleague.

“You want to start this now, Talbot? I thought we'd matured past this point.”

“Ah-buh-buh!” Bela cautioned, holding out a hand and pausing his attack, “I come in peace.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, mirth glittering in his eyes as he found the Impala at his back and leant against it.

“That so?” he said, his voice dry and lined with too much history to afford her credit, but she only rolled her eyes when he held up the screwed-up little ball as proof for his incredulity.

“Well, honestly, if you weren't aimlessly wandering around in Wonderland with your brain-fairy friends, or whatever caused that ridiculous, drugged-up grin of yours, that would never have happened because you would have heard me calling your name. _Several times._ ” Bela said, not giving Dean time to either blush or snipe back before she cut him off and continued.

“It's an invitation, genius. The Humanities' Faculty Summer Mixer? It's this Saturday at _Crowley's_ and you're the only one who hasn't RSVP'd.”

If the words weren't pointed and disapproving enough, her eyebrows certainly got her point across.

Dean huffed, reaching into his pocket for his car keys.

“You know I don't go to those things, Bela,” he groused, opening the door and tossing his briefcase over to the passenger's side before turning to look back up at her.

“If I wanted to watch Adler spiking his own drinks, starting fights he can't win and hitting on Eleanor Visyak every five minutes, I'd hang out in the staff lounge. And besides, I already told Inias I can't make it.”

Bela sighed and shook her head, though her hands flexed open, placating.

“Fine, fine, but don't say I didn't try.” Her fingers rubbed at her forehead in exhaustion, like just talking to him was giving her a migraine.

“I swear to all that is Holy, teaching half-baked Sophmores the importance of Neuroeconomics is an easier task than trying to coax you out of your little love-den for an evening.”

Dean flashed her a grin that quite clearly conveyed exactly how true that statement was and exactly how many shits he gave about it.

Bela's lips thinned out, a sharply frustrated sound puffing out from her chest.

“I don't know why I bother. Socialising with someone other than your Omega is actually _healthy_ you know, Dean,” she said, her voice stressed, but it was mostly for appearances.

They both knew she'd already lost the battle.

“Sorry, buddy,” he called out over his shoulder as he climbed into his car. “I have plans.”

Bela mumbled something about knowing exactly what he had _planned_ , mixed with a few choice words about his priorities, but the smirk was back on her lips so Dean didn't think he'd have to worry about the screws of his desk being loosened over the weekend. Again.

Still, he made a mental note to check the frame stability before he'd let his morning class in on Monday just to be sure. He'd learned the hard way; Hell hath no fury like a Talbot scorned.

She hated going to faculty events almost as much as he did, but being the head of the Economics department meant she didn't get as much wiggle room as Dean, which in turn meant she was always eager to make him suffer alongside her.

“See you Monday?” Dean asked Bela's retreating form as he closed the door and fired up his baby, listening to her roar to life.

The flipped bird he received in response was as good a gesture of forgiveness as he was going to get and Dean snickered to himself, flicking on the radio as he pulled out of his parking space.

He really didn't get why she kept trying with this stuff. She knew as well as any of his friends; weekends were off limits.

Weekends were for Cas.

+

Dean walked through the front door and sighed out his relief, closing the wood against the swollen, heavy sunlight at his back.

The ride home, even with his windows wound down had been sweltering and although the sun was beginning to droop and wane into the tentative clouds, it was still hot enough that Dean's skin sang for joy at the sudden shelter.

The house was cool, airy, and blessed, only the soft scent of onion and aniseed hinting at any heat coming from within, a sweet heat Dean was more than happy to seek out.

“I'm home,” he called out, wandering with the path lead by the smell, following it to the kitchen.

There was no immediate answer and when Dean popped his head around the door frame he saw the room was quiet and still, save for the bubbling of two pots sat atop the stove.

Glancing around for signs of his mate, Dean relaxed into an easy smile as he eyes fell on the open back door—light sowing into the room like drops of rain over leaves through the paisley-patterned curtain. The veil tousled gently with the breeze, Castiel's delicate wind chimes dangling off the frame; kind, tinny sounds beckoning Dean to follow them outside once more.

Abandoning his briefcase and jacket on the counter top, he crossed the room and peeped his way into the broiling pots, both satisfying his curiosity and taunting his hunger because even he could tell the food wasn't quite ready yet, though he wasn't exactly above diving in with a spoon and scolding his mouth on undercooked vegetables either.

Dean gave each pot a stir and breathed in the earthy, herby scent of Castiel's cooking, reminding himself to praise Cas for it later.

It was definitely deserved; only Cas could make asparagus and spring greens look appealing.

He peered out into his garden, the small kitchen window adorned with the doily curtains Castiel had picked out for them at a small market, so immediately in love with the odd, vulnerable little drapes, running gentle fingers over them and asking _please, Dean._

Their house was full and bright with these sorts of pretty things that Castiel loved and needed and drew into his collection of misfits and cast-offs.

The kitchen was no different, with its ancient appliances in friendly pastels and dollhouse chairs tucked into the dainty, speckled table Castiel insisted Dean eat breakfast at every morning.

They weren't Dean's taste but he hadn't minded them, not a bit, not when they made Cas smile so colourfully, such a genuine, simple joy smudged pink across his cheeks.

Out in some side corner of their wide vegetable-patch, Dean could see a figure crouched to the ground, deft hands working away at something and he smiled, his chest expanding with welcome, comfortable warmth.

He ducked his head outside, wilfully navigating the clever little stone path trailing up the length of their garden to his mate's side.

The heat seemed less intense out here, the garden blanketed in the pleasant shadow of sprawling old hickory trees and proud, strong oaks standing where shade was needed, shy plants curled happily in their harbour.

Dean's eyes closed lazily, ambling on, swept up in the vivid, saccharine scents of honeysuckle and elder flowers, clusters of bright cowslip and splaying butterfly weed embellishing the edge of the winding path, their jaunty petals upturned towards the haloing sun and nodding contentedly in the warm breeze.

Dean ducked out of the way of round, yellow bees humming their work songs and passed easily by the drowsy butterflies mottling the violets, undisturbed even as Dean with all his bulk slugged past.

The garden was beautiful and made even more so by the man that had so gingerly reared every last seedling from every tiny, little seed, nurtured the soil so it could bloom herbage as strong as houses.

When Dean found that man, Castiel was bent down, tucked into a quiet corner and carefully snipping away at sprigs of tarragon to use in his cooking. One hand was pressed gently, mindfully against the curve of his belly, his bump swelling out the fabric of his opal summer dress, his form soft and feminine and completely lovely among his plants.

Soon, Castiel would grow too big for the dresses and blouses he already owned and it would be time to buy new, more practical clothes, but Dean didn't have the heart to bring it up with him just yet.

Castiel was always so sad to put his dresses away during the winter and it had only just become hot enough to wear them once more. Dean wasn't about to take them away again.

“There's my beautiful wife,” Dean murmured, reluctantly interrupting the quiet song Castiel sang with the bees and smiling down at the wispy mound of dark hair that soon twisted around towards his voice.

Castiel's smile was dazzling as he beamed up at Dean, his cheeks flushed with the heat and his extra weight. Radiant.

“Hello, Dean.”

He stood up, struggling only minutely before accepting Dean's hand to help his way, and pressed himself into the net of Dean's arms, leaning up and offering his lips to kiss like he was starved of him.

Dean couldn't help ducking down and tasting the pink slip of Castiel's mouth. Nothing had ever been quite as tempting, he was sure.

Castiel hummed against his lips, his tongue flicking out to wet his mouth and swipe away the lingering taste of Dean, lapping him right up.

Dean breathed in deeply, nosing Castiel's thick hair and saturating himself in that sweet scent; all peaches and almonds and honeyed fertility. Calmness and security embraced him, cradled him easily in the gentle peace of having his Omega healthy and happy in his hold, where he belonged. 

“Good day?” Cas asked, his chin resting against Dean's chest, completely at ease in his arms. A glint of a metal tag catching the sunlight stole away Dean's immediate attention, his eyes flicking down involuntarily.

The collar around Castiel's neck had been loosened during the day, hanging neatly around the base of his throat to alleviate the clutching strain of the arid air but looking no less graceful for it.

Dean's fingers found the small, circular tag dangling at the front that proclaimed Cas as Dean's; collared and owned. He traced the cool metal engravings wordlessly, his thumb knowing the words by heart; a ritual.

Safe, _mine._

Most modern Omegas and their mates rejected the idea of these leather symbols of ownerships, these _bitch-collars_ as they were known.

They were archaic and obsolete, a cruel reminder of a past paved by the subjugation of a whole breed of people, the crippling of their worth and their humanity by societal Alpharchy. The theft of autonomy, of agency worn like a noose around an undeserving throat.

Castiel, though, had wept when Dean had finally given in and collared him, had worn his gratitude proudly over blushed, pink skin and sang his thanks in cries and moans in the shroud of their bed, blissed to just belong.

He knew exactly what it was to wrap the heavy, iron chains of history around his neck but to love their weight over his heart, even when the disapproving, empty judgement of a stranger's glare threatened to trip him up.

Castiel had always known what he'd wanted and Dean thought he'd carried his head higher and with more grace from the moment the little key had twisted its head into that tiny seal, locking Castiel as Dean's.

Happily, perfectly _Dean's._

Neither of their eyes had been dry as their bodies found their way into one that night, trembling with the truth held taut in their breaths and endless as the pulse in their veins. This lock was not a burden but a freedom, this collar a choice, a gift, a promise.

_Beloved._

“Way better now I'm home.” Dean said honestly and kissed Castiel's forehead, his hand gravitating naturally towards the mound of Cas' tummy, rubbing gently over the soft material with something like worship softening his expression.

“And how were my girls today?”

Castiel huffed, his eyes rolling. Dean's smile widened.

“I told you, Dean,” Castiel said, managing to sound chiding without putting too much heart into it as his hand came up to join Dean's atop his belly, “It's a boy. You have to trust me; I do know these things.”

“Oh yeah? And how's that?” Dean asked, amused.

His fingers curled around Castiel's waist, drawing him close and into the web of his scent, as though nine hours apart could have possibly swept away Dean's claim on him. Castiel shrugged.

“Mother's intuition.”

Dean laughed lightly, easy, mellow limbs tightening around Cas' swollen shape and Castiel's accompanying grin was so impish that Dean had no choice but to duck down and kiss it away.

Castiel wriggled in his hold, quite pleased with himself, but relaxed against Dean's mouth happily, his neck tilting back and stretching like an offering.

Dean growled, low and just as pleased, nipping at Castiel's lips just to hear the resulting whimper, to feel his body shuddering against his own.

Heat, a different kind now, spread through him as he licked his way into Castiel's mouth, their tongues rolling just as their bodies began to pick up the same rhythm, curling and rocking like they wanted to be as wet and open as their kisses, growing deeper with every second and Dean felt no hurry to stop.

Castiel drew back though, just an inch, his eyes pleasantly dazed and his voice breathless.

“Dean,” he whispered, wiggling a little against Dean's hips in a delicious little arch, “I— _Dinner._ ”

A noise of displeasure and then Dean was ducking down, his teeth sharp and warning against the root of Castiel's neck, grazing over the speckled purple of a day-old bruise and digging in enough for Cas to still.

“Are you telling me no, Omega?” Dean demanded and Castiel shivered at the low rumble, his eyelids fluttering over pupil-drowned blue.

The sudden rolling, sweet scent of something other than the flowers, something wet and cloying permeating the air told Dean just how much Castiel loved these little reminders, these little challenges.

Loved knowing the power Dean had over him and just how quickly he would fold to it.

Castiel's hips ground up against him apologetically and his neck and spine bent back in a pretty curve of deliberate submission, opening himself up for his Alpha.

“Of course not,” Castiel breathed, his voice a little slack around the edges, “It would be a shame if dinner got ruined though. I made apple and blackberry pie for dessert.”

Dean smiled fondly, his palms stroking up the dip of Castiel's back, feeling a burst of pink affection as Cas blinked up at him with too-innocent eyes even while he continued to rub up onto Dean's crotch enticingly, like he wasn't internally freaking out about the possibility of their food spoiling.

Dean let him rut against him for a few more moments, just to test Castiel's resolve and when Cas just carried on like the good little bitch he was, Dean grinned and slapped his ass in dismissal, pulling away.

Castiel always knew how to get himself out of trouble.

“Slut,” he remarked gruffly, scenting Castiel's slickness in the air, but there was no humiliation in Castiel's smile as he turned around to gather up his tarragon once more, bending over unnecessarily and presenting himself shamelessly for Dean's hungry eyes.

“Your slut, sir.” Castiel pointed out, his eyes shining like lightning and chicanery at Dean's groan.

_Little fucker._

+

Dinner was, of course, perfect but Dean expected nothing less from Cas by now, there'd been a reason he'd proclaimed him to be the 'Stove Whisperer' way back in college, the first time shy little Castiel Milton had plucked up the courage to ask Dean over for dinner and subsequently proven everything they said about Alphas and their stomachs to be true.

He'd always had a way with food and he'd only gotten better since then, ever since they'd settled down and Castiel found room in his tidy garden to grow his own lumpy fruit and vegetables; the ugly, misshapen things Cas so loved and could create wonders with.

Dean pushed his plate away, sated and stuffed and groaning pleasantly. He took Castiel's hand in his own and brought those clever, green-fingers to his lips, soft kisses peppering over gentle knuckles.

He found Cas' eyes and smiled.

“That was awesome, honey,” Dean said, running his thumb over the bumps of Castiel's fist, his fingers curling just slightly, watching with quite pleasure as Cas visibly preened; his eyes and cheeks bright with Dean's praise.

Castiel nodded in subdued acknowledgement, a beautiful humility he didn't need.

“Thank you,” he smiled, his nose scrunching into tiny, happy wrinkles for a second.

He squeezed Dean's hand once before pulling away, his chair whisping as it pushed back against the polished floor and Castiel rose to his feet to gather the dishes.

“I'll put the left overs in the fridge for you to pick at later.”

Dean huffed at Castiel's knowing expression, but he found no argument to counter him, instead standing to help clear the table.

By all rights, these small tasks were Cas' chores, agreed on by both of them when they'd understood just how they wanted to live and just what roles they'd each play but now that Castiel had fallen pregnant, Dean didn't feel right just sitting down and watching his Omega struggle with the dishes they'd both eaten from. Especially after being on his swollen feet cooking and cleaning all afternoon. Dean didn't mind helping him out.

Castiel, however, did.

“Dean, please,” he said curtly as he stole the plates from Dean's hands, adding them to the precariously balanced pile already in his arms, “I've got this.”

Castiel's smile was a calm, convincing thing but Dean frowned, the pull of something deep and protective tugging in his chest, watching Cas try to nudge open the door with his hip, his toes nosing along the frame and navigating their way into the crack.

“Cas, we've talked about this,” Dean started, the gentle core of his voice cracking over the low, sincere blades balanced on his tongue.

He held out his hands to collect some of Castiel's burden but the man was swift and crafty with his yoga-hips, even as plumped as he was, and evaded Dean's help like a phone call from his mother.

Castiel hated Dean coming to his rescue when it came to the kingdom of his own kitchen. Dean knew he felt as though he could master at least this, that he was fulfilling his duties as an Omega-wife by allowing Dean rest from his hard day while Cas took to keeping their house clean and prim, as was his responsibility.

As they'd agreed.

 _Before_ Castiel had been introduced to the new limitations and boundaries set by the bulk of his womb and his pride had to make way for the baby he carried instead.

“I'm fine, Dean, _really,”_ he stressed, pushing into the kitchen and thoroughly ignoring his Alpha.

A throaty growl rumbled in Dean's chest, displeasure arching his lip as he watched Castiel sway and stammer.

_“Cas.”_

Too late.

It wasn't the avalanche Dean had been expecting and cringing for but Castiel stumbled just that little bit too far to the left and, though he quickly regained his balance and the dishes were steadied, two escapees crashed to the wooden floor in a spray of shattered porcelain and uneaten pasta.

A sharp silence followed, clinging on to the walls of the old house like Castiel's breath had frozen in his throat, his wide, sorry eyes staring down at his mistake, a stain on the ground.

Dean sighed, his shoulders slouching away into stiff, wound arms.

Mutely, he stepped forward and plucked the remaining plates out of Castiel's now pliant hands, stopping in front of the shamed Omega and watching Castiel's face tighten around the edges.

Reaching out for his chin, Dean angled Castiel's head up towards him, demanding his eyes.

Cas came easily now, supple and resigned under Dean's touch, that bright virgin-blue flickering up submissively for judgement.

He shifted awkwardly under Dean's shadow, his fingers wriggling like confused birds at his sides, hands twitching and shuffling, uncertain of where to come to rest.

He radiated nervousness, but Dean knew how to read this body, knew its language and he could hear the whir of anticipation bobbing in Castiel's pulse, the wise length of his neck.

This game was theirs and Dean knew the rules.

He let out a tutting noise, his face masked with disappointment, and Castiel shrunk back slightly, though his eyes barely blinked.

“Clean this up,” Dean said gruffly, the order tasting as harsh and stony as his tone.

Castiel's teeth worried over the rosy pout of his lips before a tongue darted out and wetted over the chapped flesh, his head bowing forward.

“Come upstairs when you're done.”

He watched as Cas nodded, tracking the movement with his jagged gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, just to watch him squirm, before he stepped back, satisfied, and allowed Castiel to slip past him and out towards the utility cupboard to fetch the broom, traipsing off to do as he was told.

Dean let out a staggered breath, walking to the kitchen with the dirty pots held steady in his grip. He wasn't keen on the idea of his pregnant wife bending down to clean up sharp peaks of broken pottery off the floor, but this was the order they had to uphold, the contract they'd delighted to write themselves into.

Defiances and slip-ups, no matter how well-intended, were to be punished as Dean saw fit and Castiel was to defer to his authority without question. He needed his Alpha to guide him back into his place, back into line; to force Castiel to remember exactly what he was and where he stood.

Otherwise, how would the Omega ever learn?

Soon, Castiel came into the bedroom where Dean was sat, tall and opaque in an arm chair.

No words were exchanged as Dean beckoned him over. Castiel knew better than to speak without being spoken to when he'd done something wrong.

They knew this dance off by heart.

Castiel shuffled forward on tentative feet, hands cupped in front of his bump, face down-turned and eyes tracking the floor until he came to Dean's feet, the tag of his collar bobbing at his throat.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Dean asked.

Castiel swallowed hard, steeling himself, and turned his face up.

“Alpha,” he said, a plea in his voice, “I'm so sorry. I didn't—I didn't listen to you, I _ignored_ you and I messed up because of it. I should know better.”

His head bowed again, his eyes skipping to the left.

“I wanted for you to relax, but your orders come first. I know that. I'm very sorry.”

Dean sighed, shaking his head, his fingers drumming absently on the arm of the chair. The term 'puppy eyes' could have easily been invented to describe Castiel's expression right now, the man looking like he was two seconds away from a full blown lip-quiver.

Good thing Dean was feeling generous today, and it had been an accident after all.

Castiel wouldn't be punished for his clumsiness, not when he was still learning how to navigate around his new shape, but the disobedience couldn't be allowed to slip by unchecked.

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice surprising in its gentleness, “You know what I have to do.”

Castiel chewed his lip, but nodded as he slipped out of his pumps, silently walking over to the bed and hoisting himself up on it, folding at the waist. _Such a good boy._

Dean slowly came to his feet and moved behind Castiel, watching his thighs quiver slightly and press together.

The air thickened.

He shivered, his spine arching when Dean's palm ghosted up the smooth, pale curve of his leg, a thumb trailing a path along the inner crease, just watching the skin pebble.

A hitch of breath and Castiel's dress was pulled up, bunched at his hip and exposing the swell of his ass to Dean's greedy eyes.

He tugged up the soft material of Castiel's ruffled, lacy panties, opening up more flesh, and skimmed his fingertips idly up the curve of blushing skin. He decided any thoughts that swelled and howled wicked and red in the back of his mind, the pit of his stomach, could be quelled and smoothed over for now.

There was no need for the furore. There was no rush, and Dean delighted in taking his time, in taking Castiel's strings and _pulling,_ slow and careful, watching Castiel unravel breath by breath; vulnerable and ripe.

Before, Dean would have simply pulled Castiel over his knees where he'd sat on the chair, yanked down his panties and beat his ass raw and red until Castiel was crying and writhing and begging for absolution, yowling promises of being a good Omega, pledging to be such a good slut, anything so long as Dean would just relent his assault.

Those times were made of mud, of the red, bloodied earth their kind had sprouted from; pure basal instinct and the clamour of need in their bones.

There was something pure about giving into the blood-song you shared with your ancestors and rising an Alpha over the trembling, supple form of a well-punished bitch.

They had to be more careful now though. Castiel couldn't take as much as he used to, as he wanted to, and Dean was always so mindful of his new delicateness, so cautious not to put any pressure on his belly, not to do anything to harm the precious life Castiel was growing for them.

Still he knew they'd both go more than a little bit insane if they stripped this outlet away entirely, if they robbed themselves of this kind of catharsis.

They just had to find a balance. Adapt.

“Since you know what you did wrong,” Dean said, brushing his fingers over Castiel's thighs, watching the muscles leap and startle under his touch, “and since you've been such a good little wife otherwise, you only get ten. But don't go thinking you can just zone out and it'll be over. I want you to count them out for me. Got it?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Satisfied, Dean seized Castiel's navy panties in one hand, using his grip on the material to hold Cas still and stop him from swaying.

The first blow was as always the lightest, a warning shot, but still Castiel shook with it, a half-strangled, open-mouthed mewl Castiel was trying to squash down breaking free because there was always so _much_ in Cas' body; he could never find the room to hide his sounds as well.

“One!” Castiel shouted, jolting forward a little and gasping so prettily.

Dean brought his hand down again, harder this time and more precise in his aim as he swatted at the roundness of Castiel's cheeks, enjoying the way they juddered with the impact, his cock jerking in his pants in sympathy.

He knew it would be all too easy to lose himself to this, to let his mind drift and unlatch from the grounding hooks of inhibition and just lay into Castiel. To let those emancipated cries and whimpers shuttle them forward until they'd both debased into clawed, caustic wounds, open and snared by the ardour.

Tempting but impossible for now, so Dean paused and drew in slow air through his nostrils, listening to the harsh, slashed panting of Castiel's breath as the man struggled to keep it manageable and timing his own to match. _Focus._

Dean could hear Castiel obeying his orders, could remember him listing off the numbers like he was bleeding with gratitude for each one, even as his voice broke over the most recent smack rattling up his spine.

Dean beamed with pride—such a good bitch he had.

He palmed Castiel's ass with harsh fingers and pushed him up, aiming his next blow on the under, more tender side of a cheek, enjoying the jolt of Castiel's body, every noise he made shooting directly to Dean's groin.

The smacks were alternated, because Dean really was feeling generous for all his quiet cruelty, and quickly ten had been delivered, leaving Castiel's skin flushed and smarting; pretty blotches of pink deepening at the centre where Castiel wore Dean's ownership as beautifully and proudly as the collar around his neck.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hushing Castiel's little whimpers, “There we go, all done.”

Dean rubbed Castiel's back and hips, waiting for the hiccups to sooth. He couldn't take his eyes off the reddened flesh, the sharp marks that matched his fingers perfectly.

Like a labourer, Dean was proud of his hands, of the work they welded, the mastery they could create. A sculptor whose most precious tools were his fingers, moulding the hard clay into something supple. Something wonderful.

Something like Cas.

Castiel looked back over his shoulder at Dean, eyes wet and wide, so much sincerity woven into the blue.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said.

Wonderful boy.

Dean smiled, leaning to kiss the bowl of his spine, the staircase of his bowed back, the freckles at his hips.

“Why do you need this?” Dean murmured, his breath hot and wet and formless at his lips, prickling over Castiel's skin and plucking out a shiver from his chest.

“Why do I have to punish you?”

A moan.

“Because— _oh_ —Because I was bad and my behaviour needed to be corrected,” Castiel said, lust thickening his words. “Because I need to be a good boy for you.”

Fingers tiptoed up the bridge of Castiel's ribs, wandering around his torso to curl around the tender swell of blossoming breasts, catching themselves at the lace-chain of Cas' dress and discovering they could slip beneath.

Dean came closer, his body rising over an invisible hurdle to rest flush against Castiel's ass, rocking forward just barely.

His lips ghosted, now that they could, along the sweeping length of Castiel's neck to the thatches of hair at his nape, a touch of tongue to catch and cradle a stuttered gasp.

“Why else?”

The subtle slip of cloth and Dean's fingers found Castiel's nipples—perky little buds, sore and swollen and ready for milk.

Castiel's head tipped backwards like Dean had drawn tight a string, eyelashes fluttering, his voice collared where leather sat at his throat, shapeless sound strangled around ruined-whines.

Such a slutty bitch, a goddamn whore for the torture biting at his chest.

 _“Cas.”_ Dean pinched, irritation itching his veins, nails digging punishingly down into the tiny, aching peaks.

Castiel yelped.

“Why else?”

“Because I need putting in my place. N-need to be reminded what—ah— what I'm good for. What I am.”

Dean tried not to moan, forcing himself to swallow almost painfully, and squinted, as though narrowing his vision could trick him into concentration and away from fantasy, could coax him to see with his eyes and not his dick.

One hand trailed down Castiel's sternum and over the curved expanse of his pregnant belly, a soft roundness at this five month mark, and crept towards the nooks and jutting hiding spaces at his hipbones.

More kisses, pressed wet and open down towards the slope of a shoulder, lips braced over the silvery scar of a decade old mating.

Castiel rocked backwards, all his empty spaces moulding to Dean's shape and enveloping any distance between them with skin and heat, pressing as close as he could get without stripping himself to the bones.

“And what are you, Cas?” Brittle words, rough and wanting.

“I'm an Omega. I'm a good bitch and I should act like it.” Castiel said, his lips stumbling around the words, squirming impatiently to get what he wanted.

Dean couldn't hold back the groan this time.

Hundreds, thousands of times they'd done this, Castiel repeating those words like an oath, a pledge, and still the words got to him like hot lashes on bare skin.

Still the words were new.

Dangerous.

Where Castiel's head was titled back, Dean could see his gaze was heavy lidded and his mouth was bitten red, round and slack, obviously as much a captive as Dean

“That's right, sweetheart. That's why I love you so much; you know what you're for,” Dean rasped, biting, tasting any skin available to him.

“Such a good wife for me, taking care of the house just like you're supposed to. Wearing all the nice dresses and pretty panties I pick out for you.”

Castiel let out the sweetest sounds; needy, breathy noises Dean wanted to collect for himself and keep close in the cradle of his ribs, practically keening when a hand strayed downwards and found the crease of his panties, wet and soiled with slick just as Dean knew they would be.

“Don't make much of a difference though, do they Cas? You soak right through them every time.”

Castiel was almost frantic, the muscles of his arms jumping to steady himself when Dean slipped his fingers past the lace and glided them so lightly over his tight, dripping hole.

Dean hissed, the scent coming from his mate thick and intoxicating, almost tangible and damp in the sweet air.

“Little Omega slut,” he said, a growl roiling his breath, “Always so fucking wet, aren't you? Always so needy for cock and come filling up your greedy little cunt, not happy 'til you're split open on a knot. ”

Castiel whined, high and false, and hid his face into the crumpled sheets he'd laundered freshly that morning, sticking his ass up in the air. Presenting.

Little, urgent thrills shook Dean's spine, made his vision blur in the flimsy light, that chained, visceral place in him thrashing to be _free,_ to rip and writhe through his skin and crawl out if it had to, just to get at Castiel.

Soon, he told himself, soon he could have this. Cas was already his after all, there was nothing to fight here.

Dean hushed him, a hand slipping from his tit to rub at his belly, and Castiel's fingers curled into the bed sheets, tugging.

“That's okay, darlin', I know you can't help it. You're an Omega, baby, this is what you're for, isn't it?” Dean said, smiling, vicious as he pulled Cas' delicate, damp panties down to his thighs and slipped a finger past that tight, wet little ring of muscle. He tutted.

“Poor baby, you're leaking.”

Castiel wailed desperately, no pretence left in him anymore.

His body quivered, trembled as Dean pushed his way into him, fucking his finger to the hilt and crooking it just so, coaxing Castiel open enough to take a second.

Those slim, wiry hips were making long and clumsy circles back at Dean's hand now, every Omega instinct screaming at him to writhe and beg and plead to be fucked full and ruined.

To be caught wide on a knot as quickly as possible, for as long as possible.

“Fuckin' made to be all wet and desperate for Alpha dick, can't help wanting it so bad. It's what you're good for, isn't it?” Dean continued, his voice a dusty rasp against Cas' throat.

He almost couldn't breathe for Castiel's scent now, the heavy wall of it surrounding his body and crushing him, refusing to be ignored and like siren song Dean would happily let it lead him away, drag him down and drown him, but this wasn't Castiel's heat and Dean had resisted worst.

It was nowhere near time to cave in yet.

Castiel moaned, his hole clenching down hard and gushing with Dean's words and they were in danger of losing him to the Haze, too soon.

Dean brought his hand down, hard and cruel against the reddest patch of Castiel's ass, demanding his attention.

“Isn't that right, Omega?” he said, as stern and unforgiving as his merciless fingers, three pounding deep into that perfect, wet heat now.

Castiel snapped up, pain jerking up his spine.

“Yes, Alpha!”

Dean tsked and added a fourth finger, his thumb circling the sensitive, nerve-addled opening in quick little strokes, but he didn't let Castiel's head fall back down under the swell of pleasure, didn't let his mind sink away again.

He had to push for more, take more, strip Castiel down to the animal mass of meat and selfish impulses he was made of.

“Yes. Alpha, what?”

Dean didn't need to look to know Castiel's eyes were wrenched shut, his little cock bobbing hard and slick between his legs as he rocked back, unhinged and allowed to impale himself on Dean's fingers.

He was coming undone, shedding his pelt. Fraying beautifully.

“This is what...what I'm m-meant for,” Castiel said, stammering on broken air, “To be fucked and—and _used._ M'not good for anything else.”

Dean hummed a sound of approval and spread his fingers wide inside Cas as a reward for his honesty, watching gleefully as he buckled and sobbed into the bed bellow him, lit up in sensation and overwhelmed with the pressure in his body.

“Yeah, sweetheart, just a cock hungry little bitch aren't you? S'all you can think about. Ways to get a knot in your pussy, ways to get fucked, just like the mindless fucking Omega slut you are.” Dean said, telling Castiel everything he wanted, _needed_ to hear.

“Fuck, _Alpha, fuck_.”

Cas swayed slightly on the mattress, only Dean's hand on his hip keeping him upright, little hiccups of breath catching and ringing in his throat, telling Dean just how close he was and Dean wanted to get him there.

He thrust his fingers forward brutally, nailing into Castiel's prostate and putting his whole arm into the motion to spread him as wide and as deep as he could because Cas could take it and Dean wanted to give him everything.

There was no resistance, no cries of pain as Castiel's ass fluttered and clamped down on his hand, so wet and greedy for more, used to taking knots and cock, and toys twice the size of all of Dean's fingers.

Castiel only whimpered, his hips bucking and undulating, looking for that pressure that could push him over the edge. Dean decided to take pity on him.

Scooping his thumb in close to his palm, Dean pushed forward, heavy and smooth against Castiel's gaping, red-red hole, watching with black eyes as the pretty stretch of him widened and slowly swallowed Dean's hand, just like Dean knew he could, knew he would.

“Oh god, _oh god_ — _”_

Castiel howled and Dean smiled, wondering on the sight in front of him as Castiel's body parted inch by lewd inch and took him in, clutching and tightening around him in pulses.

He was fucking obscene, accepting everything Dean had to offer, enveloping him greedily and whining impatiently at the too-light, feather pace Dean kept up as his hand, his _fist_ sank in because Dean would never rush this, would never hurt his bitch.

“Look at you,” Dean said, awed when all he could see of his right hand was the thick slip of his wrist disappearing fluidly into Castiel's ass.

“Taking my goddamn _fist_ in your cunt because you can't stand being empty, can't stand not being used like a worthless little slut.”

He twisted his hand slightly, feeling Castiel's slick walls throbbing around him, gripping him so needy and so _hot,_ Jesus. He had to swallow then, had to take a breath and steady himself against the adamant tattoo of his pulse hammering away at his resolve.

Gradually Dean began to curl his fingers up, balling his hand into a fist as slow as molasses.

When he felt his knuckles drag against Castiel's searing insides, he flexed his hand slightly, a crooked smile on his lips and despite the time Dean had given him to prepare for it, Cas' head still fell backwards with a startled cry at the fullness, his skin slick and dewy with moisture as he shook and shook and Dean fit inside of him like a damn winter glove.

“Dean, I can't— _please_!” Castiel sobbed, the tendons in his legs seizing up, tensing like he was about to break, but Dean didn't let up.

“This is what you're meant for, isn't it, angel?” Dean murmured, beginning to pump his fist just barely, taking that barbed, honey pleasure-ache building in Castiel's nerves and twisting it on its side.

“Meant to be a fucktoy writhing on my hand like you're in fucking heat, nothing but a goddamn slut hole for your Alpha?”

“Yes, _yes,_ Alpha!”

Castiel's head thrashed frantically side to side as he sobbed wetly into the bedding, his mouth babbling out severed curses slurring into Dean's name, careening more 'yeses' into the fervent air.

Dean snarled his satisfaction, his quickening hand brushing Castiel's prostate relentlessly with the arch of his fist, punching Castiel towards the spiral.

“Come on, Omega,” Dean said, his voice as filthy as the sight in front of him, the taut body quailing against the edge, clinging on for permission Dean was happy to give.

“Come for me.”

Castiel shattered.

It sounded like pain, that cry, as it pierced Dean's ears, a rattling sound so wet and anguished he almost thought maybe he'd thrust too hard but then Castiel's ass spasmed and hot slick was leaking around his wrist.

Castiel clenched down, desperately trying to milk Dean's hand like it was a knot as he wept his orgasm out into the sticky sheets and damn if Dean wasn't on the verge of creaming his pants like a freaking pup, just at the sight of him.

For a second, everything froze and then Cas slumped over, crumpling up against the bed, his lungs sucking air in loudly.

Dean felt flush with pride for his Omega, stroking his back in gentle circles even as the cacophony of chemicals raging in his skull howled at him to spread Castiel open and _ruin_ him on the spot.

“Such a good boy, there we go,” he said instead, his voice light and praising.

He let Castiel breathe for a few moments, let him find his way back to Dean and then slowly began to uncurl his hand and ease it out of Castiel's puffy, fucked-out ass, mindful of those pained, regretful little whimpers.

“Shh, princess,” he soothed, wiping Castiel's slick off his hand and onto the bed because he was all too tempted to lick it away and that wouldn't be good for either with them.

He didn't need any extra pheromones to want to wreck Castiel; the damage was already too close to being done.

“My good Omega, you did so well.” Dean said, shuffling onto his knees behind Cas, “Love seeing you take whatever I give you just like your supposed to, right in your pretty little cunt.”

Castiel sighed happily, wriggling back against Dean as the last little shocks left his body, melted onto the bed.

All of this, they both knew, was entirely and utterly fabricated. Ancient lies told by cowardly mouths and whispered in between their sheets because nothing said a lie couldn't be as erotic as any truth on the tongue of a lover, a husband.

It had been difficult at first, when they were young and easily swept up in something too rich and too confusing for either of them to completely understand.

Dean had met Castiel in college, in need of a tutor and introduced to the snarky, blue-eyed Biology major who might have just saved his bio-statistics grade.

The attraction had come immediately, but the admiration, the awe and affection hadn't straggled too far behind, not with Castiel's impressive intelligence and dry sense of humour, not with how intent he seemed on wriggling his awkward way into Dean's heart.

In the end, Dean had been a goner; falling head over heels listening to Castiel babble animatedly about the magnificence the human eye and its evolution, horribly in love with the lightness in Castiel's own gaze and the rosy enthusiasm colouring his cheeks.

Their relationship had blossomed effortlessly, wonderfully with all of its coyness and gentleness and ease. Everything was perfectly normal, perfectly balanced and any question of their 'gender roles' hadn't even crossed their minds.

Until one blurred, savage night when their bodies became collision and filth had poured from Dean's lips as he'd pounded into Cas' supine form, a little more violent, a little less gentle; callous words avalanching out of him like he had no more say over them than the beating of his own heart.

For a time gravity came and went and unexpectedly they'd crashed with the lashes of these fraudulent, gendered slurs, wound as close and as consummate as the ouroborous. They'd fragmented beautifully, cleaved open into the best, most honest orgasms of their lives.

After that, Dean had hid himself away for a week.

Castiel though—brave, defiant, ever-wise Castiel—had drawn him out with kisses and promises and reassurances and, tentatively, they'd begun to build on this discovery, gradually testing the taboo waters of this shared, unexplored kink.

The first time Cas brought it up with him, awkwardly suggesting they try it out once more, had to have been the most uncomfortable conversation of Dean's life. He was about to start his Ph.D. in Omega Studies and here they were talking about a joint kink that not only fully embraced archaic gender roles, but eroticised them.

He found out quite quickly though that the awkwardness slipped easily away once they'd started fucking and stopped caring, happily enveloped in the roles they'd adopted as their own, too high on adrenaline and arousal and each other to feel concern.

Dean had realised he could still kiss Castiel, could still be kissed when they were done, could still adore and respect and admire just as much as he had for the past three years. What the hell did it matter what they got off on together?

Ten years they'd been mated now and seven living like this, evolved to the point where Castiel had stopped teaching high school Biology to happily stay at home and become the perfect, stock Omega-wife for Dean instead; charged only with keeping the house clean and tidy, and himself pretty and open and wet like a good little bitch should be.

Dean had become the provider, the decision maker because they'd agreed impishly that Omegas were for fucking, not for thinking, but they both knew it wouldn't last forever.

Neither of them wanted the child Castiel carried in his belly to grow up in a household where being an Omega meant you were less than an Alpha or Beta, whether pretend or not.

Soon, they'd have to adapt to make way for their baby, but for now they were determined to enjoy what they had.

To enjoy who they were.

Dean smiled, knocked out of his thoughts by a helpless-sounding moan breaking the quiet. He settled against the lovely warmth of Castiel's damp, draping body and decided he wanted to feel it with his own skin, wondering just how it was possible he hadn't found nakedness yet, when he was already stripped so bare.

He pushed up, working himself out of his shirt and tossing it over his shoulder, the heat no less kind to his skin now that it was free but it couldn't be blamed solely on the sunlight here.

Slipping his belt open, Dean leant forward, bracketing Castiel's hips in his palms and nosing along the rope of his spine.

“Up,” he said, shattering the air, “On your hands and knees.”

Castiel complied groggily but his sluggish limbs were keen enough at least to keep him supported and ready, an iron strength baring his neck.

Making quick work of his pants and shoes, Dean's form found Cas', the crease between them blurring as reverent hands slid up the slippery cathedral of Castiel's ribs, pushing his creased dress up over his shoulders and off somewhere to the left of them, his fingers coming to rest of the altar of his heart.

They sighed together as skin found skin at last and Dean's body hummed dust songs, shivering at the icy-heat of the body underneath him, as feverous as a rut.

He brushed his lips over the knobs of Cas' neck and kissed, drawing his scent in deep. Castiel groaned, low and dirty, and rocked backwards as though bereft of contact like Dean hadn't just made him come not five minutes earlier.

Dean hissed as that plump, gaping ass ground up against the hard swell of his cock through his boxers, the sensation painting the room red.

“Little whore,” he said through gritted teeth, admonishing but Castiel only moaned with it, sounding all too pleased.

Dean's hands surged forward, snapping around Cas' wrists and pinning them to the sheets, his lips twisting upwards in a lazy smirk at the little gasp Castiel made as Dean wrenched him bruisingly close, pressing flush against him and letting Castiel _feel_ exactly what he'd done to his Alpha.

“This what you want?” Dean said, his breath puffing out against Cas' ear, his stubble rasping against his neck and Castiel whined, wheeling his hips backwards. Little shit.

“Mm, Alpha, please,” Castiel said hopefully, tilting his head around and rubbing his smooth cheek on Dean's nose, the dark fringe of his eyelashes tickling his forehead, “Need you in me.”

Oh, but Dean knew that already, could _smell_ just how much Castiel was soaking to get him buried balls deep in his dripping, swollen hole.

Dean nipped his jaw roughly, strong thighs slipping forward to frame Castiel's legs, trapping him in place. His cock throbbed in his boxers, aching where he wanted to bury himself to the hilt, to be both in and around Castiel, _with_ him in every way he could manage until they were indistinguishable from each other.

His grip on Castiel's wrists grew tight and teetering, every inch of his lean body straining and grasping for control of himself when all he wanted to do was sever.

“I know what you _need,_ bitch,” Dean growled, his mouth snapping all teeth and tongue at Castiel's neck, sucking a bruise on his sweat spangled skin. Distracting.

Castiel's moans shuddered high-pitched from his bitten lips and he arched back towards Dean, spreading his legs impossibly wider and trying to thrust up into nothing.

Dean chuckled throatily, nuzzling at the wound he'd welted, the peppering flesh that would become another mark, another reminder in their bathroom mirror tomorrow.

He released one of Castiel's bony wrists and spooned his arm around to cup Castiel's little dick, the small, vestigial thing already hard and pulsing in Dean's hand again.

Castiel whimpered, his head rolling to his chest as he panted out his pleasure and rocked forward to seek more friction, already so needy for it.

_“Dean.”_

“Such a slutty, greedy Omega I have,” Dean chided, running a thumb up the sweet length of Cas' dick, feeling him stiffen.

“So turned on all over again. Once isn't enough for you huh, Cas? Won't be satisfied until you have a dick buried all the way in your pregnant pussy.”

Castiel panted, rutting against Dean's hand and crotch like he was in the throes of his heat, but honestly he'd been high on the drug of his own pheromones since Dean had knocked him up, always horny, always ready and desperate for cock.

Dean couldn't wait to start breeding him again once the baby was born and Castiel had healed. He knew he wanted to keep Cas this way—barefoot, heavy with child and needy for cock—for as long as he could and now that they knew Castiel took so well to being pregnant, Dean was all the more determined to keep the cycle going, to keep Cas permanently bred up and beautiful.

The perfect wife.

“Yes,” Castiel said impatiently, a pretty spectacular sounding pout in his voice, “So would you please just _fuck me already._ ”

Dean snorted, trying not to be amused at Cas' sniping little outburst because a heightened libido wasn't the only change in Castiel's temper since becoming pregnant.

He flicked cruelly at Castiel's cock in punishment, hearing his Omega yelp and whimper with the brilliant pain, needing to be put back in his place.

“No backtalk,” Dean warned, slapping Castiel's gently flagging erection once more for good measure. Castiel let out a soft little sob, jerking and arcing his back.

“Oh, hush,” Dean said, dropping Castiel's dick and rolling his eyes, “Crying over your little dick, Jesus. You know that's not what's important Cas, that's not what you're for.”

Castiel almost toppled over, a noise half caught in relief, half in agony escaping his chest, but Dean paid it no mind as his fingers glided idly to the silky, hairless folds of Castiel's birthing slit, mapping its softness lazily.

There was nowhere else for his explorations to go—Cas wouldn't dilate or open unless in labour or properly medicated—but Dean loved touching this secret, sacred part of him anyway, loved reminding Cas exactly what he was, exactly what he was for.

Mostly, he loved the pretty shades of humiliation and joy Castiel would nestle into when his fingers stroked over the area where an Alpha or Beta male would have a set of balls and all Castiel had was a declaration that he was just a breeder.

That he was just a bitch.

 _“This_ is what you are, Cas,” Dean told him gently, his other hand letting go of Castiel's wrist and gravitating towards his heavy belly as if to prove his words. “This is what you're meant for.”

He kissed Castiel's shoulder, quietly marvelling at his Omega, admiration and awe drifting pleasantly under his coarse words, still so grateful and amazed that Castiel had given him this.

“That's why your cock's so tiny and pathetic, sweetheart; it's just secondary, left over. Don't even gotta touch it to get you off.”

Dean's hand brushed over Castiel's gravid stomach, his cock throbbing hard and needy with each lash of obscenity struck from his lips, non-immune and rapidly losing to his own cruelty.

“Everything important's right here,” he murmured, pressing a finger against Castiel's slick hole.

Castiel pushed back against him deliriously, canting up his ass, splaying his legs and mewling high in his throat, trying to make himself as pretty, as desirable as possible in hopes of tempting Dean into fucking him. Instinctively shifting into the lordosis pose, as though he wasn't already as bred up as he could be.

“ _Please,”_ Castiel said, chanting the word over and over as he pressed back shamelessly, his body juddering and twitching with every touch, hyper-aware of Dean's words like they were tangible and excruciating against his skin.

His Castiel was a goddamn slut for humiliation.

“Hell, honey,” Dean continued, ignoring Castiel's mindless pleading for his cock, for relief, “it's only because I'm so good to you that I don't keep you chained up in the bedroom with a fake cock in your cunt when I'm not around.”

Castiel's fists rucked the sheets up, frenzied with the pictures painted for him and fixated on the urgent need to be knotted, whining out wet, red noises that intermingled and wandered along with Dean's narrative, nothing delicate left in him now.

Just as indelicately Dean quickly shed his boxers entirely without ceremony, his wide hands instantly drawn back to Castiel's hips like magnets the second he was naked, their bare flesh free and colliding like they wanted to become each other's dust.

His eyes dark and blind with Castiel's lewd pleading, Dean slipped forward, grinding the purpling head of his cock along the slit of Castiel's ass, moaning, growling at the slickness. At the _heat._

Castiel buckled, choking himself silent of all noise until he found breath again.

“That's all an Omega's good for, babe,” Dean said, trying and failing to stay detached from his own gravelly tongue while Castiel writhed like a whore beneath him.

“To be kept wet, just a hole to be fucked open and bred full.”

“Alpha, _mount me_ ,” Castiel begged, and there was no mistaking the tears in his voice now, sounding so sincerely heartbreaking and pitiful in his grief for his own emptiness.

The pleas of his Omega crying out in distress pulled at Dean's instincts, dragged him under into entropy, unable to deny these most basic of requests. He felt so suddenly sodden with need, strangled and feral and prey to the predator snapping free in his chest.

“Please, do it _please,_ I'm so wet...need your cock, your knot—god, please, want to be split open and _owned,_ fuck Alpha, _please!_ ”

Dean growled viciously, taking his cock in a callused hand and slapping it against Castiel's swollen, leaking hole, the simple, animal drives in his veins that demanded he _take this bitch_ seizing feverishly in his mind.

Suddenly jailed by every classical concept of the Possessive Alpha (and these stereotypes certainly had their basis in truth), the idea of not being buried in that tight, perfect heat became intolerable, unthinkable.

Castiel's panties were immediately unacceptable where they hung like cuffs around his thighs, stopping Dean from spreading him completely open and quickly they were ripped away, shredded satisfyingly on the sheets.

Dean held Castiel apart, taking a second to admire the clenching, glistening furl of pink skin, and that was it.

One sharp brutal thrust and Dean slammed home fluidly, Castiel crying out in pure, pained rapture, his hole clamping down rhythmically onto the thick stretch of Dean's cock.

Dean grunted, dizzy with the sensation of being sheathed so wonderfully deep in that sweet, velvety cunt and gods but Castiel felt _incredible._

Of course, Dean knew this, of course they'd wound together just this way countless times, but nothing could ever prepare him for just how euphoric it felt to be this entwined, this connected with his mate.

Dean pulled out to the tip, his body trembling with subdued outrage at being deprived of Castiel's heat even for a moment, and then he slammed in again, violent and stark, watercolour vision blurring with the brilliant, debilitating pleasure of it.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean panted, hands scrambling for the sharp arcs of Castiel's hips, yanking him backwards cruelly and unnecessarily—Castiel was already driving his own ass to meet Dean's thrusts, yowling and thrashing wildly, savage.

Animal.

They were being swallowed; prowled and made prey by pheromones, tripping over blissfully into its snare-scent. Engulfed in this bold, crooked lust.

The sun had at last begun to grow drowsy in the rusty sky, hiding its face as it ducked to kiss the horizon. The room was draped in yellow flecked streaks of burnt orange, painting Castiel gold where the shadows fell away into pale, quiet spaces, lighting him up like he was made to be.

He was beautiful here; a wild thing, a free thing, bound and boundless and entirely Dean's.

Dean couldn't stop touching him, couldn't stop wondering at the edifice of his body, the sharp lines of silvery bones and the artistry of his pelvis; all jutting boomerangs made more lovely where they softened and swelled into plump curves and tangible, gravid fertility.

Dean loved the roundness of him, beautiful and fecund where he wore the results of Dean's prowess, like his body was a scripture written in Dean's ink, ordained and absolute.

_And so it is written._

Castiel tossed his head back with every jerk and judder, spangles of sweat scattered down the slope of his spine, collecting at the dip of his arched back like pins on a map.

He made a happy sound as Dean's body pinned him stationary, going limp and supple with the instinctive, biological desire to submit and feel his Alpha's virility, his strength—even while he carried the discernible proof of it.

Vulgar, wet noises flooded the air, pattered with grunting and whining and panting as they clawed to get at each other, bodies oscillating, precipitating, _surging._

Castiel let out a gasp, and Dean's eyes tracked the visible effects shudder up his spine, curling over his shoulders and propelling him backwards, unthinkingly impaling himself onto Dean's cock.

Dean hissed, his thrusts growing brutal, owning as he slammed into Castiel's body, drunk on just how _responsive_ Castiel was for him, his pussy contracting and pulsing perfectly around Dean's dick, single-minded and narcotised like only a pregnant or fertile bitch could be.

“Look at you,” Dean said, barbed words straining like sandpaper on his tongue, his lungs itchy with erratic, absent breath, “Almost as needy as when I knocked you up, Cas. You remember?”

Castiel's mouth hung loose, open and lax, a whispered flurry of sounds Dean doubted were even English tumbling from his lips.

“Went fucking crazy under me,” he said, recounting.

He drove in deep, angling his hips to drag the sweetest, most addictive noises from Castiel's throat with every brush of his prostate.

“Knowing I was going to knot you bare and fill you with my pup, begging for me to keep you pinned and leaking come until you were good and bred.”

These words, Dean knew, were his arsenal; sharp and deadly. He wanted to attack Castiel with them, wanted to watch him crumple and fail under his assault, and he didn't have to want for long.

Castiel let out a trembling, shaking sob and his arms gave way, unable keep him aloft, his upper body collapsing to the sodden sheets once more.

“ _Yes, yesyes,_ Alpha, please!” Castiel cried, slurred, still rocking back weakly with all might he could manage, _quivering_ with feeling, jabbering with prayers.

All semblance of lucidity had fled Castiel's mind, leaving a galvanised mess of raw nerves and searing need just waiting to be consumed.

Funny then how Dean felt like he was the one being devoured.

He folded forward, chasing Castiel's body in its slump, looming more like a predator than a lover.

“Loved it, didn't you sweet bitch?” Dean's hips gyrated, his knot already beginning to swell and catch on Cas' rim and Castiel mewled, tightening up for it instinctively.

“Loved knowing you were being a good Omega and breeding for your Alpha, just like you were born to.”

Dean could swear he felt Castiel vibrate underneath him, quaking with the shoddily collared impulse to unhinge, to bite and claw and snarl until Dean just gave in and knotted him, kept him happy and flush while unloading batch after batch of hot come into his hole.

He could almost imagine that Castiel wanted to flip them over, ride Dean into the mattress to get what he wanted, his hormones driving him half rabid, but he'd never slip so far, not Dean's Cas.

He was a good bitch; he only did what his Alpha told him.

Dean's hands cupped Castiel's heavy breasts again, pinching and flicking at his sore nipples, knowing just what strings to pluck to get Castiel burning, to make his body seize and his pussy tighten.

Castiel let out a string of pretty, sorrowful sounds, his chest pressing forward shamelessly into Dean's touch.

“Such pretty tits,” Dean said, grunting and pulling at the reddened nubs, making Castiel whine,

“Gonna get so big, aren't you, princess? Gonna grow so swollen and achy, all full of milk for the baby I fucked into you. Already got you so big and round on my dick, so swollen that everyone knows you're _mine.”_

The last part was growled out, teeth scraping at Castiel's nape, loud possessiveness flaring in Dean's gut, red static scratching his sight.

“Yours,” Castiel agreed, his voice sounding surprisingly sweet, if exhausted, and Dean's Alpha roared proudly with it, “All yours—bred me so full, so b-big with you—oh fuck, _Dean_.”

“I know, Omega, I know,” Dean hushed, pressing soft kisses to Castiel's shoulder, a hand splayed on his belly and it was his turn to speak nonsense now, his mouth expelling every senseless thought that flayed his mind.

“And you're gonna be such a good mommy too, baby. So beautiful like this, never wanna stop filling you up. Gonna breed you all over again as soon as you've had this one, get you knocked up with another pup. Always gonna keep you like this, Cas, are you're just gonna take it and _let_ me like the perfect little Omega slut you are.”

Somewhere among the filth, the decay, was truth and Dean clung to it, soared with it, knowing that Castiel wanted this too. That they'd always wanted a big family and that they both agreed they were financially stable enough to start it now.

They had many years of Cas being like this, of heats and breeding and pregnancies to come and Dean couldn't wait.

“Yes,” Castiel pratically hissed, fucking himself back frantically, as though he was driving himself towards the future Dean had laid out for them.

“ _Yes,_ I want it!”

Cas felt feverish underneath him, the entire length of him red and jolting, muscles stained and twisting to wind back at Dean, driven half mad by the barrage of his obscenities.

The world whirred, distorted and became rapid. Dean knew they were edging the whiteness, clamouring in tandem towards their goal, drawn together like tide to shore. Tilting to the left and reeling.

Dean was suffocating, exsiccating, could only think of thrusting deeper, slamming in harder, desperate to submerge himself in Castiel. To breathe him in.

Static pricked at his ears like pins and needles and he burrowed closer, grappling for purchase, looking for shelter, slipping.

Slippery skin sticking to linen, lapping, kissing, turning the fabric dark, wanting to be shed. They'd been swallowed; victims, chaplains of this swelter, this deluge, careening and oscillating.

Dean panted and stuttered and Castiel keened, rutting together like they hadn't yet crawled from the mud, too heavy, too hungry to stand.

They'd long since shed their men and shifted into their beasts: savage, brutal and alive, _alive_ —their bodies burning with friction, with the fury of this ritual, thousands of years urging them closer, tighter, magnetised, welcomed, needed. Pivotal.

“Dean,” Castiel said, insistent, breaking through the smother, and Dean listened. Sabotaging himself.

“Knot me! _Knot me,_ please Alpha!”

Dean had no say in the matter, couldn't refuse Castiel even if he wanted to, too much of this written and coded by DNA and brazen animal instinct.

The noise he made was almost a roar and Castiel reared back with it, arcing his hips like he knew what was coming, unbridled joy in the ' _yes'_ he let out.

Growling, Dean's teeth found Castiel's neck, clamping like they wanted to shred and devour the flesh, to savour the bitter, salt-tang of red, so much red.

Proud of his kill, the taste of a conquered bitch.

He snapped his hips forward one last time, deliberate and skilled in a way only nature could make him, the stretch of his cock knocking hard against Castiel's already-full cervix in clear command. Blood command.

Castiel made a sound like he was dying and, obediently, he seized up; head thrown back in startling ferocity, his body jerking and spasming wildly as he came a gushing mess on Dean's expanding knot. Not once touched and right on cue.

Not before, not after, just like he'd been taught.

Castiel's muscles shifted, rolled to accommodate the knot as he spasmed around it and it was too much.

Dean cried out helplessly, his orgasm slamming through him and locking him with Castiel, drawing them tight. Pieces of the same body.

His skin felt electric, flayed with pleasure and delight, his whole body a gaping maw, a struggling morsel; consuming and consumed.

He'd already collapsed when his eyes blinked back open, unloading another batch of come to douse Castiel's insides, pulsing contractions milking him for every drop.

Castiel was shivering wetly under him, slumped and limp and utterly blissed out.

Dean snorted softly, his arms stuttering as they went to draw Castiel closer, to calm and shelter his Omega beneath his weight, but he drew back—the globe of Castiel's belly reminding him to shift them carefully over to their sides instead.

Castiel nestled back against the curve of him instantly, sighing sedately as he placed a hand on Dean's thigh and his entire body trembled, rejoicing to be allowed to freely touch its mate again.

Their bodies, mindless things, curled and tucked in tight—nose to temple, goalless lips against messy hair and the voltaic night air began to cool at last.

Dean's limbs felt warm and heavy, languid contentment setting in even as little thrills of sensation rocketed up his spine with every wave of ejaculate, but he found this wasn't what was holding his attention.

He pressed his face into Castiel's neck, breathing him in, wrapping himself in his sweet, earthy scent and he was snatched by the impulse to pin him down and hold him captive, right here.

He wanted to become a blanket and cover Castiel's body, to keep it warm and happy in childish concepts of safety where heat and familiar scents and a soft mattress meant you were untouchable, here in this kind sanctuary.

Unwilling to chase (or let go of) that chain of thought, Dean simply rolled himself closer and slipped an arm around Cas' waist to stroke at his pregnant belly, smiling at Castiel's pleased purr as they waited out his knot. A pile of happy, gangly limbs.

“You okay?” Dean asked after a quiet while, companionable doubt cocking its head.

Castiel snorted fondly, his hand coming to rest atop of Dean's to let him know just how ridiculous he was.

“Wonderful,” Castiel said, and Dean couldn't help the burst of smugness at just how wrecked and raw Cas sounded.

As though he could hear Dean's thoughts, Castiel scoffed and batted his hand, but his head tilted back and came to rest a welcome weight against Dean's shoulder.

His eyelids were heavy but his gaze hadn't lost its light when Dean found his eyes, his breath arrested by just how radiant Castiel looked, glowing with sweat and exhaustion alongside his fecundity, a lazy smile on his lips.

“Thank you for fucking me, Alpha.”

Dean had to kiss him then, sweet and chaste and matching his grin.

Castiel laughed into his mouth, a bright honest sound that Dean held at his lips, worrying the ripe flesh for a moment, half convincing himself he could taste peaches.

“You're welcome, sweet Omega,” Dean said, drawing Cas in close for sleep until the knot was deflated enough for them to clean up. 

Outside, the night had finally folded away the sun, a tree whispering gently against the window in holy breeze, shading their ebbing chapel while they found needed rest.

They had another gospel to write tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> sdfghjk I'm super nervous about this one so I'd really love to hear if it worked for you. Also, I'm currently writing a sequel to my fic [Cernunnos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/489241%20) _finally_ and I was wondering how many of you are still interested in seeing more of that verse?


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